Hollow eyes, Hollow bones, Hollow hearts
by X5thAvenueX
Summary: She endured so much, but perhaps it was worth it for this. He came for her, and that counts for something, and they are shot with the exact same gun.
1. Chapter 1

**Hollow eyes, Hollow bones, Hollow hearts.**

Based on the scene in Somalia in Truth or Consequences, but with a very different - darker - ending. From Ziva's POV, Tony's POV will be the next chapter.

Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS

Chapter 1: First meetings, last meetings, and the pieces you collect in between:

* * *

The first time she saw him, it was in her rearview mirror as he tailed her around the streets of Washington, late at night.  
The first time she spoke to him, his eyes were empty and the pain on his face raw, and his jokes and charm could not cover the loss.  
The first time she shared pizza with him, Ari was spiraling out of control, and her world was crumbling around her.  
The first time they worked a case together, they were both picking up the pieces.  
They still are.

She expected nothing and everything, instead she got him.  
He is here, for her, and god oh god, she does not deserve him.  
There is so much to say, so many things to talk about; things that start with Jeanne and end with Michael, but all the important words seem to stick in her throat, and possibly in his.  
She pretends the words he does say don't cut her, and he does not notice the blood as it mixes with the rest that coats her body.

She has spent months actively not thinking of him, not dreaming of him, not missing him.  
Months in which she would wake with a scream in her throat and a name in her mouth; a name that tasted suspiciously like Tony.  
He has come to take her home and put her back together, and she hates him just a little for it.  
He has sacrificed himself for nothing, and they will all pay the price.

The light from the window behind illuminates him and he looks glorious and brave and heroic and perfect and perfect and perfect.  
There are bruises on his face, and dirt on his clothes, and maybe, just maybe, Iloveyou on his lips, and lust in his eyes.

And then they come, and cut her bonds, and pull her up, and in a moment of graceful dignity she manages to stay standing.  
As they drag her away she does not struggle and she does not cry, because he will not remember her like that, helpless and at another man's mercy.  
He has seen enough already, and she will not add to the world that rests on his shoulders.

Later, as she sits, tied to her hard chair in her cold cell, she hears a gunshot, and then silence.  
Now she cries; for her, for him, for things that are lost and people that are wasted, men that ache and women that fear, and eyes that are screwed tightly open, seeing too much, blind to the world.  
She takes comfort in the knowledge that she will be dead soon too.

The last time she saw him, his eyes were defeated and stubborn and he screamed of promises.  
The last time she spoke to him, their worlds were still crumbling, the sky falling down.  
The last time his heart beat, she could hear it loud in his chest and she was proud and angry and oh so sorry all at the same time.  
Now everything is silent, except her own heart beating slowly in her chest, and McGee's screams from the adjoining cell.

* * *

Please review, will probably post next chapter tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hollow eyes, Hollow bones, Hollow hearts.**

Tony's POV.

Discalimer: I do not own NCIS.

Chapter 2: Chasing cars, and maybe women, and maybe still.

* * *

He has seen her undercover, dressed in silk and lace and heels and silver, and all the things that beautiful women wear, and that she never does.  
He has seen her bitter and content and vexed and confused, laughing and shouting, loving and hating, but not like this, never like this.  
She is bare and bound and broken, held together by a chair and rope and maybe hope, and it makes his insides sting.

It can't be her, but it is; here and alive, and somewhere between the cracked skin and the brittle bones, there is a girl who once stood proud.  
He loved her then, and he loves her now.

Dirt streaks her face, her neck, her clothes.  
Dirt and blood and sorrow and desperation and her eyes are wide and frightened and an apology sits on her lips. On his lips.  
She is just a girl.

He did not cry at Kate's funeral, and he didn't cry when Paula died.  
He didn't cry when Jeanne left, when Jenny was killed, and he did not cry when he thought she was dead.  
"I have" she says, and he wants to cry now.

Her skin screams of defiance and regrets and she is drowning in guilt, but he shakes his head, idonotblameyou.  
It is probably not enough.

They come, and he wants to kill them all for even thinking of touching her, but instead he just watches as they drag her away and he knows that he has failed.  
He can almost hear her screams, see all the awful, awful things that shouldn't have happened - not to her, never to her, to anyone but her - and definately did, and the worst part is that a peice of her thinks she deserves it.  
He holds her gaze until the bag is back on her head, and there are no last words to say.

Once she has gone, he realises the only thing he has left to hold onto is that he tried.  
He tired for her - only for her and always for her - and when he feels the gun on his temple, he is not ashamed to say he chose this.

It is late at night, and somewhere, a man follows a woman as she drives through the streets, and she tells him he will never get it.  
Later, she holds a gun to him and then they just lie, side by side, as water and blood and bullets rain down, and the ground dissolves around them.

* * *

Please review!


End file.
